Monthly Archives: May 2017

This and that from re Thai r ment, by 3Th. 1 Joey 0006 (March 30, 2017)

 
“The great American pastime is no longer baseball. Now it’s sanctimony.”
Hill, Nathan. The Nix: A novel (p. 284). Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group.

 
HAPPY BIRTHDAY FEDERICA

 

 

 

TODAY FROM AMERICA:

 

A. POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN EL DORADO HILLS:

Rain rain go away
come again when I say.
Pookie wants to laugh and play
So please please come again another day.

The problem with rain in the Golden Hills is that it either hangs around too long or cannot be found when you need it. The constant series of storms have forced me to remain indoors and read or stare out the window. The good thing is I no longer feel like road kill. I can eat and drink almost normally now. Hooray for me.

The rain has stopped falling for a few hours. The sun peeks in and out among the cloud mountains.
IMG_2606

The results of the CT-scan show the tumor is barely, if at all, noticeable. Good for me. Hooray again. I have a few more examinations to go through between now and May with at least three doctors before I know more. However, since I was originally diagnosed with stage 4 throat cancer I may already be dead and not know it yet. Meanwhile, the various side effects of the treatment continue to slowly ebb.

I have lost about 40 pounds and my wrinkled and sagging skin makes me look like a lizard or, with my big ears, a little like Gollum. I wonder about those advertisements for various creams and things that are supposed to mitigate the “heartbreak” of flabby wrinkled lizard skin after weight loss — to me, I think I look kind of cute.

The sun has finally come out for more that a few hours in the day. In fact, it has lasted for almost a week now. I would normally be quite happy, unfortunately, SWAC is due to arrive today and that has driven us all into a more somber mood than would be expected from the return of the sunshine.

A few weeks have gone by. The sun has shined down on the Golden Hills more often than not. I feel good some days and not so good and equal amount of the time. Dick has left for a 10 day trip to Thailand. HRM, SWAC and I remain in El Dorado Hills, turning on and off the sprinkler system, putting out the garbage and attending to the daily maintenance of the home that Dick usually attended to.

 

B. NEWS STRAIGHT OR SLIGHTLY BENT:

Having little to do and finding fatigue and despondency condemns me to spend the most of my day (and evening, and often during the dregs of the night) reading. And of course generally searching for something entertaining and enthralling enough to occupy my time.

It is often difficult to explain to others what someone finds good or entertaining.

Among movies perhaps my favorite of all time is The Princess Bride followed by something called Radioactive Dreams. The first of course often can be found on various lists of 100 best or favorite movies. The second, Radioactive Dreams is on no one’s list of best movies, except for mine of course. In fact, I think the only copy of it in existence is owned by some German media company.

It has been over two weeks since I wrote the above paragraph. I now no longer remember what I was going to write about to follow up on that beginning. I think that means I have spent enough time on this post and it is time to move on.

 

 

 

DAILY FACTOID:

 

Fishing villages might have appeared on the coasts of Indonesian Islands as early as 45,000 years ago.’
Harari, Yuval Noah. Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind (p. 48). HarperCollins.

NOTE: This is 35,000 years before settled agricultural villages first appeared in the Middle-east.

 

 

 

PEPE’S POTPOURRI:

 

A. Trenz Pruca’s Observations:

Destiny is simply an issue of quantum dynamics. It happens when it happens, no sooner and no later so, there is no need to worry, shit happens all the time.

 

B. Today’s Poem:

 

Mannahatta

I WAS asking for something specific and perfect for my city,
Whereupon, lo! upsprang the aboriginal name!

Now I see what there is in a name, a word, liquid, sane, unruly, musical, self-sufficient;

I see that the word of my city is that word up there,
Because I see that word nested in nests of water-bays, superb, with tall and wonderful
spires,
Rich, hemm’d thick all around with sailships and steamships—an island sixteen
miles
long, solid-founded,
Numberless crowded streets—high growths of iron, slender, strong, light, splendidly
uprising toward clear skies;
Tide swift and ample, well-loved by me, toward sundown,
The flowing sea-currents, the little islands, larger adjoining islands, the heights, the
villas,
The countless masts, the white shore-steamers, the ferry-boats, the black
sea-steamers well-model’d;
The down-town streets, the jobbers’ houses of business— the houses of business of
the
ship-merchants, and money-brokers—the river-streets;
Immigrants arriving, fifteen or twenty thousand in a week;
The carts hauling goods—the manly race of drivers of horses—the brown-faced
sailors;
The summer air, the bright sun shining, and the sailing clouds
aloft;
The winter snows, the sleigh-bells—the broken ice in the river, passing along, up or
down,
with the flood tide or ebb-tide;
The mechanics of the city, the masters, well-form’d, beautiful-faced, looking you
straight
in the eyes;
Trottoirs throng’d—vehicles—Broadway—the women—the shops and
shows,
The parades, processions, bugles playing, flags flying, drums beating;
A million people—manners free and superb—open voices—hospitality—the
most
courageous and friendly young men;
The free city! no slaves! no owners of slaves!
The beautiful city, the city of hurried and sparkling waters! the city of spires and
masts!
The City nested in bays! my city!
The city of such women, I am mad to be with them! I will return after death to be with
them!
The city of such young men, I swear I cannot live happy, without I often go talk, walk,
eat,
drink, sleep, with them!
by Walt Whitman

 

 

TODAY’S QUOTE:

 

“There’s a lot to be said about merely having a hazy idea of what’s going on but generally reaching the right outcome by following broad policy outlines. In fact, I’ve a sneaky suspicion that it’s the only way of getting things done. Once the horror and unpredictability of unintended consequences gets a hold, even the best-intentioned and noblest of plans generally descend to mayhem, confusion, and despair.”
Fforde, Jasper. The Woman Who Died a Lot: A Thursday Next Novel (p. 33). Penguin Publishing Group.

 

 

 

TODAY’S PHOTOGRAPH:

IMG_2527

 

 

 

PETRILLO’S COMMENTARY:

 

This is a continuation of my overlong views on a period of history that has always interested me. What I call the first centuries, from 300 BC to 300 AD. A period during which a peculiar belief system developed that altered history for the following 2000 years.

The empire strikes back.

As a general rule, empire to the Romans was just business. What people believed, or how they behaved or dressed had little interest to them as long as it did not disturb the peace or interfere with commerce. Alas, in Jerusalem and the surrounding areas of Judea the warring sects especially the Zealots (The Sicarii faction was the Isis of the time) had finally tried their patience.

In two campaigns, one in about 70AD and the other in 132 AD the Romans destroyed Herod’s Temple and drove the Jews out of Israel.

The Romans realized that the turmoil in Judea while directed at their occupation unlike in other parts of the Levant and Syrian Saddle was exacerbated by the wrangling over the Temple. Issues such as who should be the proper chief priest could cause riots. Since the temple itself as far as the Romans were concerned was something built by their creature Herod, I suspect that in addition to its destruction being a punishment they also believed that its removal would eliminate some of the conflicts among the Jews themselves. So in about 70 AD, they destroyed Herod’s temple.

It did not work, so in I36 after putting down a rebellion by Bar Kokhaba, they removed the Jews from Jerusalem.

After the dust had settled most of the squabbling sects disappeared, along with the Jesus church leaving only Pauline Christianity and Rabbinic Judaism to continue their disputes in other areas until at the end of the first centuries Constantine declared a particular syncretic form of Pauline Christianity (centered intellectually primarily in Egypt) the winner over not just its competing sects but Judaism and paganism as well.

 

Categories: January through March 2017, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

This and that from re Thai r ment, by 3Th. 2 Cold Tits 0006 (February 17, 2017)

 
“When weird comes knocking, gray hairs count.”
Fforde, Jasper. The Woman Who Died a Lot: A Thursday Next Novel (p. 8). Penguin Publishing Group.

 

 

TODAY FROM AMERICA:

 

A. POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN EL DORADO HILLS:

There has been little adventure in the rain-swept Golden Hills this past week or so, and for that matter even less for Pookie unless one considers watching one’s body become foreign to oneself an adventure.

It has rained pretty steadily for a while now, forcing me indoors except for my daily trips to treatment and chauffeuring HRM to and from school. As for my body, no longer am I amused by one or another side effect of my treatment. It seems as though my whole body has rebelled from the attacks upon it. Neither food nor drink nor locomotion seems any longer of interest. Even breathing seems to take a conscious effort. I try to content myself with the knowledge that only two more weeks remain before the assault ends. But that seems a long way off — two weeks too far. I try to boost my morale by telling myself that others have gone through this and much worse with less complaining. I see them every day at the treatment centers, sitting quietly, sometimes with slight smiles on their faces — not like me slumped on my chair scowling. I guess, for a confirmed hypochondriac and wuss like me, I shouldn’t expect more of myself than scowling and complaining.

Actually, what bothers me most — other than the dark thick viscous scum that now seems to permanently coat my mouth and throat that, when I spit into the bathroom sink, sticks there like an alien being. It cannot be washed away by water but must be scrubbed off. What is something like that doing in my mouth? …… Where was I? Oh yeah, what bothers me most. What bothers me most is that it is all-consuming. It is hard to notice other things — just me and the effects of the treatment. It has become hard to see the humor in things. It doesn’t matter whether it is dark, cynical or cruel, eventually, seeing the humor in my experiences has always been important to me — maybe even more important than anything else. There certainly have been a lot of absurdities during these weeks of treatment to smile at. Perhaps, I will describe some of them further on, but not now. Now is the time for bitching. Bitching is therapeutic.

The rain

Those who live in Northern California are experiencing “The Rain” caused by a storm surge that occurs only every 10 years or so driven by something called the “Pineapple Express” which delivers warm moist air from somewhere near Hawaii and drops it on us in Northern California. It has been raining fairly steadily for about 10 days. Although I spend most days indoors, every few days I like to drive around the subdivision observing the water as it flows in the streams and along the drainage ditches that run by the roadways and are disguised to look like natural streams with rocky bottoms and clever landscape. Unlike natural streams, however, they are as straight as a ruler and conveniently disappear whenever they meet up with suitably developable properties. Near our house, they empty into the Duck Pond in several pretty little waterfalls. The pond itself is swollen, drowning the willows that line its banks. With all this rain, I expect spring to be especially flamboyant this year.

Ends and beginnings

All thing end, I guess. Good things seem to end long before I would like them to and the bad things generally hang around far too long. On Friday my treatment ended weeks after it had worn out its welcome. The doctors told me that the side effects, the pain, the blood filled pus and the general feeling that death would be a welcome option would remain for a while and they have proven to be right.

Following my last radiation treatment, the radiation technicians congratulated me for making it through as though it was some aboriginal coming of age right where most of the participants die – – I guess it was in a way. After the technicians and other nurses left the room, one nurse, a tall slender black haired woman with round black rimmed glasses, remained. She gave me a tight long hug. I could feel her breasts and hips pressed against my body. She kissed me and then hugged me again for a long time. I did not know what I was supposed to do or say. I mumbled, “You guys were great” as I untangled myself and shambled out of the room with my hospital gown flapping open at the back and ran back to the changing room.

Now I wait for a few weeks for the results of some testing and meetings with the doctors to find out if I am a dead man walking the short or the long mile. One thing I know, if it is the short mile, I refuse to do this again no matter the promises.

The sun

The sun has broken through the clouds over the golden hills for the first time in over three weeks. I felt good enough to exercise by walking around the lakes in Town Center. I have not exercised since treatment began. It was good.

False recovery

I am now ending the third week since treatment has ended. The doctors told me that things would get far worse before getting better and some things may not get better at all. As for the side effects getting worse, the doctors were right. I have never felt this bad in my life. Nothing seems amusing anymore.

A light between tunnels

My brother-in-law George came by and spent three days with me. He has gotten me to eat and drink a bit and feel better about myself.

 

B. BOOK REPORT: The Marriage Tree by Christopher G, Moore.

banyan-tree-on-pipiwai-trail

While passing through those empty times during my treatment when there is little to do other that dwelling on my discomfort or sleeping, I read. Mostly, I read things that pass the time, amusing but like after taking some narcotic and trying to remember what you did while stoned, you know you did it but cannot recall what it was you did while you did it. Along the way, I read my friend Christopher G. Moore’s book, The Marriage Tree. This was different.

To Moore, Bangkok is a mirror revealing the dark soul of humanity. In Thailand, that dark soul, that we like to pretend does not exist wherever we live, drips out bloody and foeted onto the streets of Bangkok. Like gods, the rich and powerful are immune from judgment and punishment, except by other gods like them. The rest of us are condemned to seeking a rough justice for those of our peers who may have harmed us. Those who truly set into play our small difficulties and tragedies are almost never forced into any court to answer for their complicity.

How many people have died or suffered from the products and services of the corporate entities these godlings control? How many wars have been fought to protect private interests and not the public interests? Has slavery really disappeared where laws have been passed to prohibit it, or are some of the powerful still able to command indenture of the less powerful?

This is perhaps the darkest of Moore’s books. Even the soiled hero of most of his novels, Vincent Calvino, a half Jewish, half Italian disbarred attorney from New York City, who has taken up life as a private detective in Bangkok, finally accepts that true justice, the capping of the godling responsible, is hopeless except by chance, and even then there is always someone else willing to take over and step in to play the godling role. Although it is cloaked in the guise of a detective thriller, it is not. It is a scream against the gathering darkness across our world as those wealthy and powerful self-styled godlings take control and the rest of us slowly realize we all now live in Bangkok without happy endings to content us.

Moore is Canadian and like most Canadians, his moral outrage stops just short of throwing the bomb.

When I am in Bangkok, I sometimes see Moore across the street or at some artist do. I no longer see in his face that little knowing smile he seemed to effect. He now appears haunted as though he’s glimpsed the future and found only more hopelessness there … or perhaps a local godling has happened to read his book and begun to turn his hooded eyes in his direction.

Pookie says, “Check it out.”

 

 

PEPE’S POTPOURRI:

 

A. The New Yorker Magazine halo as the nation’s best-edited magazine slips a bit:

“Because her subject was longitudinal change across the span of hours, days, and years, she needed to set her spatial position in order to see time move across the proscenium of her subjective imagination.”
A review by Dan Chiasson in the Books section of the New Yorker Magazine, December 5, 2016, reviewing a new book about the Poetry of Emily Dickenson.

B. Trenz Pruca’s Observations:

“When we were young with our peers about us, we dreamed and hoped for that which we had not yet experienced. Now in our old age, we dream and hope for one last chance at that which we will soon no longer have.”
“Symmetry is a beautiful thing.”

 

PETRILLO’S COMMENTARY:

Paul

Among those who have created great religions, Buddha, Confucius, Mohammed, Paul perhaps receives the least recognition. After all, he took the tiny organization of a Hebrew cynic and miracle worker and created the largest religion of them all.

Who was he? His family had been ennobled by the Herodian reforms of the Hasmonean aristocracy. He undoubtedly had a franchise to collect the Herodian temple tax from among the diaspora Jews of the Syrian saddle and south central Anatolia. He was quite active in Second Temple politics. Whether he was also a tentmaker or that was just a metaphor is of minor importance.

So what happened? According to Big Paulie himself, about three short years after Jesus’ death, somewhere along the road to Damascus where he was to impose the Jewish form of Inquisition upon a nest of Jesus followers, Jesus himself struck him blind and suggested that instead of persecuting these unfortunates wouldn’t be better if he became one of their Apostles.

Now, whether or not one believes in gods or their wish to speak with members of our species, one must ask why would Jesus after spending a number of years carefully choosing and instructing its leaders, suddenly decide they were not doing a good job with the good word and would be better off following some random guy with mayhem in his heart walking along a road to Damascus after speaking with him for all of a minute or so?

So, what sort of a man was Big Paulie? Well, from his own words in Galatians 1:7 Paul made it clear that he did not discuss with the apostles and disciples chosen by Jesus (“Pillars of the Church”) after he had received his revelation to be an apostle,[Gal. 1:15-16] that he saw no one except Cephas (Peter) and James when he was in Jerusalem three years after the revelation[Gal 1:18-24] and implies he did not explain his gospel to them until 14 years later[Gal 2:1-2] in a subsequent trip to Jerusalem. Also, he declared himself an Apostle and passed himself off as one without informing the Apostles themselves he was doing so. I would think, at the least, he was a man on the make if not an out and out crook.

At the time Big Paulie was rapping with Jesus alongside the Damascus Road, the original Apostles, disciples, and believers in Jesus brand of reform Judaism were part of Second Temple Judaism, in other words, a Jewish sect of the time period, the Jesus sect. Gentiles that wished to fully join the movement were expected to convert to Judaism, which likely meant submission to adult male circumcision for the uncircumcised, following the dietary restrictions of kashrut, and more. During the time period, there were also “partial converts,” such as gate proselytes and Godfearers. Paul insisted that faith in Christ was sufficient for salvation and that the Torah did not bind Gentiles. That was not what the other Apostles believed, the ones who spent years with Jesus and actually heard his preaching. While they were willing to bend over backward to make it easier for gentiles to join the Jesus sect, they required not just the faith that Big Paulie based his religion on but also to those good works implied in the Law and preached by Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount and other Rabbi’s in the Hellenic Judaism tradition, like Hillel. At the very least they should subscribe to the Noahaid Laws.

After years of accusing the other apostles of being virtual heretics and fighting for his turf among the Jews living north of modern day Israel and the uncircumcised living there, Peter and James who was the spokesman for the remainder of the Apostles who supported the Law and Jesus interpretation of it met with Don Paulo at his home base, Antioch in Syria one of the largest cities in the empire.

Peter was probably in fact and effect the person who did more than any other to hold together the diversity of first-century Jesus movement. James the brother of Jesus and Paul, the two other most prominent leading figures in the development of first-century Christianity*, were too much identified with their respective “brands” of the movement, at least in the eyes of those Jews and Gentiles at the opposite ends of this particular spectrum. But Peter, as shown particularly by the Antioch episode in Gal 2, had both a care to hold firm to his Jewish heritage, which Paul lacked and an openness to the demands of developing Christianity, which James lacked.

Later Paulie brags in his epistles how he bested Peter and James at this meeting. This was probably not true since left Antioch, the site of the meeting and Paulie’s long time center of operations, in a huff and never returned.

But enough of Paulie, whatever one may think of Big Paulie and his character, he would probably be at best a footnote in history but for events in that occurred Jerusalem at the end of the first century and the beginning of the second.

* We must remember, at this time, Peter, Paul, James and all the believers still thought they were part of Second Temple Judaism. It was not until the end of the first century before the then bishop of Antioch first referred to the believers as Christians.

 

Categories: January through March 2017, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

This and that from re Thai r ment, by 3Th. 12 Joseph 0006 (January 1, 2016)

 

“Friends don’t let friends measure Page Views. Ever.”
Avinash Kaushik
Happy New Year: May 2016 have left you with only a headache and not a heartache and 2017 be not as bad as many of us think it will be.

 

 

TODAY FROM AMERICA:

 

POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN EL DORADO HILLS:

Treatment has begun to take on the feeling of a deadly boring job. Get up, off to work, come home and prepare for the next day, catch a few social interactions and some entertainment where one can.

HRM has settled happily into the Christmas dither, shopping for presents and planning the cake he intends to bake for us. I asked him what he would like for a present. He said, “A toy I can play with for a day and then forget.”
Magic Mouthwash

The week that began with great promise as to the course of my treatment came to a close with me feeling more like road kill. So, I complained to the hoards of technicians attending me at the hospital that I was beginning to question the value of experiencing the pain I was having balanced against the possibly living five more years or so. They gave me a prescription that I was to pick up the next morning at a pharmacy near the hospital.

The next morning, I arrived at the pharmacy and was given a bottle filled with a pink liquid. The medicine was labeled, “Magic Mouthwash.”

Now, I am of that generation where referring to something as Magic this or that was usually not medicine and certainly not approved by the FDA. In addition, this particular medicine did not come accompanied by those inserts containing, in small and unreadable print, descriptions and warnings about your purchase. Instead, it contained a one-page notice that read in part:

Uses: Consult your pharmacist.
How to Use: Consult your pharmacist.
Precautions: Consult your pharmacist.
Drug Interactions: Consult your pharmacist.
Side effects: Consult your pharmacist.
Overdose: Call 911 or local poison control center.

So, I asked the pharmacist. He took me into a corner and, sotto voce, rattled off several long GrecoRoman words representing the contents of the medicine. I gleaned there were a least two antibiotics and a pain control substance. The other two or three ingredients escaped me.

Anyway, I took the magic mouthwash with me to the hospital parking lot where, in my car, I poured the amount of liquid the pharmacist recommended into a small plastic cup and swished it around my mouth.

Suddenly pain shot through my entire body and everything went white. Sort of like what happens when one takes those magic potions that appear so prominently in the cheap fantasy novels I am so fond of reading. When my eyes cleared, I fully expected to see a few pixies tossing gold dust dancing in the car in front of me, a unicorn in the parking space beside me and Marley’s ghost. Instead, I found myself free of pain and washed in a warm comfortable glow.

So, I left the car, skipped through the rain and into the hospital to find the chief nurse of the Radiation Oncology Department.

She was in her office dressed in fuzzy antlers and Santa Claus cap and a dark green tunic covered in Christmas ornaments. “What do you know about “Magic Mouthwash,” I enquired?

The nurse is from England and speaks with a Cockney accent so thick that, at best, I could understand only every other word. She also refers to me as “my darling” instead of Joe, or Mr. Petrillo or even Pookie. “Oh that,” she responded. “That’s your doctor, Dr. Jones’, favorite potion.(yes she used that word).” “He and the pharmacist cooked it up for when the patients are experiencing too much pain.” She then listed the ingredients like the pharmacist did. This time I caught that one of them was a steroid. That, I thought, explained the skipping through the rain.

“Oh,” I said. “Uh, what about the FDA?”

“Don’t worry my darling, all the ingredients have been approved. They only mixed them together. The patients seem to like it a lot.”

“I can well understand that,” I responded.

 

A Christmas story:

Twas the night before Christmas. I had spent much of the day searching through Amazon for a book I could read that did not make me unhappy. You know, slightly better than trash but not enough content to engage my emotions. You would think Amazon would be full of such things. But, I have already read most of those remotely tolerable and the blurbs describing the content of the books I had not read pained my recently damaged gag reflex. So, I took a swig of Magic Mouthwash, forced myself out of bed and went searching the house for entertainment. Perhaps, I would surprise Santa Claus stealing Christmas presents.

When I was just a young nubbin at Christmas time, I would pray that the gathering of my family for that joyous holiday would not end in a drunken brawl. That prayer was never answered. I also prayed I would get a long list of presents that greed and an inflated sense of self-worth convinced me I was entitled. Alas, usually on Christmas morning, if even one item on my list appeared under the tree, I would be surprised indeed.

I believed that the only person roaming around the house from the time we all went to bed until I woke up in the morning and rushed to the tree to gather my loot was that fat, phony Santa Claus. The god’s of gift giving, I was positive, had heard my pleas but that corpulent poser had lifted the presents from my house, thrown them into his sleigh and along with his eight flying antlered rats whisked them off to the North Pole where he could spend the year playing with them.

I swore that when I became old enough I would buy a gun, secrete myself somewhere near the tree and when that red-suited miscreant exited from the fireplace shoot him right between his beady thieving eyes.

Alas, long before I was old enough to get a gun, I stopped believing in that villainous mercenary elf or that Christmas was all about me.

Now that I am older, I have a better understanding of what Christmas means — nothing in heaven or hell can stop members of a family from despising one another if they choose to and, you should consider yourself lucky if, in life, you get anything you wish for.
Stumbling into the new year.

Christmas came and went, obviously it is not my favorite time of the year. I think of it as the Donald Trump of holidays — all bluster and fraud.

After another week of treatment, the new year began. I had little to do this week but to travel back and forth to my treatments and obsess about them. This week I was alarmed and amused by their side effects. The information I had been given when I began this adventure listed a whole host of potential side effects up to and including sudden death. All of them, the materials assured, were expected to be experienced by only a small minority of patients. It has been my misfortune to have found myself experiencing to a greater or lesser degree a majority of them, two of which I have found to be both interesting and amusing.

The first was brief periods of confusion and memory loss similar to dementia. For a few days, I found myself having difficulty remembering almost anything or understanding what people were saying. I would sit at the table with a smile on my face listening to Dick talk about something and not understand a word. When it all passed and I thought about it, I was more amused than horrified. The experience was more like being a young child again wondering what was going on, sort of like that period between the first toke on a joint and the paranoia as the high begins to dissipate.

The second side effect I was warned about was the possibility of a rash covering parts of the head face or upper body and in rare cases all three. Alas, my face, head, and chest are now covered with something that looks like it falls somewhere between a bad case of teenage acne and smallpox. I am confident it has not progressed to the bubonic plague level because my pustules have not turned black and dripping bloody pus.

The explanatory materials state that the rash usually clears up in a week or two or shortly after treatment is terminated. In some cases, unfortunately, it is permanent. That, of course, got me thinking about becoming permanently disfigured and looking like some cinema monster. Now, for the young, attractiveness is something to be concerned about in that ceaseless search for sexual partners and also, because many studies have shown that in competing for a job where attractiveness and intelligence were measured, the more attractive but less intelligent usually got picked.

Since neither a job nor competitive sexual encounters are any longer an interest of mine, I thought this had interesting possibilities. To walk into a room and have it all go silent with someone moaning, “Oh my God” or being approached on the street by some kindly soul who would exclaim, oh, you poor man, I feel so sorry for you. I will pray for you,” and then walk on by, had some real potential for chasing away the doldrums of boredom.
All in all, except for becoming stone deaf, bleary eyed and losing my sense of taste and wallowing in a miasma of dyspeptic emotions, I am feeling pretty good.That is what a cocktail of Benadryl and steroids and can do for you. I believe I am gaining muscle mass on my hallucinations,
Like many, I am not all that optimistic for 2017. I came into this world in 1939, 77 years ago, while the winds of chaos blew strong around the world and the world as we knew it ended plunging us into a decade of misery and slaughter never before seen. Now those chaotic winds are blowing once again and stronger than ever. In 2017, I am afraid, we may experience other endings, of our nation, our world and of course me. It is great, I guess, to have lived one’s life in the golden age between two great tragedies, but not particularly satisfying. Perhaps I can content myself with contemplating Jasper Fforde’s question in Today’s Quote below — have I done anything vaguely useful in the time I have been around? Who knows? Perhaps more accurately, should I even care about that now?

 

 

PEPE’S POTPOURRI:

Trenz Pruca’s Observations:

He lay on his bed with the smartphone lit to his Facebook page. He typed in the words, “I refuse,” and sent it on to all his Facebook friends. Then he turned his face up towards the ceiling and screamed, “Eat your heart out Marcel.”

 

 

TODAY’S QUOTE:

“Everything comes to an end. A good bottle of wine, a summer’s day, a long-running sitcom, one’s life, and eventually our species. The question for many of us is not that everything will come to an end but when. And can we do anything vaguely useful until it does?”
Fforde, Jasper. The Woman Who Died a Lot: A Thursday Next Novel (p. 2). Penguin Publishing Group.

 

 

 

PETRILLO’S COMMENTARY:

Another fact about Jesus and, for that matter, the Apostles is that they were not poor. They have educated members of the middle class and perhaps even the upper classes. Jesus father is described as a carpenter. This would indicate he was an artisan, a home builder and furniture maker and not a laborer. Jesus and his apostles included rabbis and temple priests. The tax collector (Matthew) could not have gotten his position without political connections. As such, they were fully cognizant of the various streams of intellectual and religious thought that permeated Galilee at the time.

Finally and importantly, Jesus was a Jew, a Hellenic Jew, But a Jew nevertheless. He never said or even hinted at the creation of a new religion. As a Hellenic Jew, like Hillel and other great rabbis, he believed there was a meta-concept that transcended and unified the Law.

So, now that brings us to Big Paulie, or Don Paolo as I like to refer to him.

Categories: January through March 2017, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

This and that from re Thai r ment, by 3Th. 32 Pookie 0005 (December 18, 2016)

“Sex is a bit like scratching a rash — it’s nice when you stop.”
Taylor, Jodi. Just One Damned Thing After Another (The Chronicles of St Mary’s Book 1) Accent Press.

 

To all:
Have a: Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Sexy Saturnalia, Fun-filled Festivus, Carefree Kwanzaa, Yowling Yalda Night, Silly Shalako, Daring Dongzhi, Crazy Korochun, and of course, Zinger of a Ziemassvētki. (And don’t forget to celebrate Boxing Day.)

Today is a free day on my calendar. So, you may do whatever you like, but please be careful.

 

 

 

TODAY FROM AMERICA:

 

A. POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN EL DORADO HILLS:

For those who find themselves at a point in their lives in need of being amused by what little it takes to amuse them (usually surprisingly little if my experience means anything), I suggest reading the Jasper Fforde’s (yes, someone actually named their child, Jasper, — but I assume that would only be in families that spell Ford with two f’s) Thursday Next series of novels beginning with The Eyre Affair wherein Thursday provides the novel Jane Eyre with a better ending.

As the above rococo sentence shows, the winter rains have come to the Golden Hills, driving me inside with little to do except read third rate novels and contemplate the absurdities and emptiness of life’s purpose. Most days, Dick is at work, HRM at school and the dogs butt sniffing somewhere in doggy heaven. As a result, I, lacking a hobby or interest in social networking beyond Facebook, sit at the kitchen table trying to run through a book a day. Not all my reading consists of third-rate fantasy. The novels of the aforementioned Jasper double F struggles to rise above that classification. In fact, in style and inventiveness, he soars far above his peers. One would understand why once one realizes that all that he has written but for the redoubtable Thursday Next series, have been children’s books and as we all know the best writing and literature in the past fifty years has come in books for children. Imagine, if Dr. Seuss had decided to write a book of modern poems to add to his oeuvre, he would most likely have been ranked with Swinburne, Dunn and Bob Dylan as among the greatest poets in the English language.

As some of you who avidly read my posts may recall a quote I posted from one of Mr. Fforde’s previous novels that began:

“I opened the door to find three Dostoyevskivites staring at me from within a dense cloud of moral relativism.”
Book World from Jason Fforde and Thursday Next or the one thereafter.

And, continued with three or four paragraphs of the finest literary high-jinks this side of James Joyce.

In the novel I am now reading he opines:

“Working in fiction does give one a somewhat tenuous hold on reality, but it’s not the hold that’s tenuous— it’s the reality: Which reality? Whose reality? Does it matter anyway? And will there be cake?”
Fforde, Jasper. The Woman Who Died a Lot: A Thursday Next Novel (pp. 32-33). Penguin Publishing Group.

In the most recent book, the redoubtable Thursday Next, her husband Landon, her children Tuesday, (a teenage genius with hormonal problems who charges the boys in her school one pound [The author os British after all] to see her titties) and Friday, (barely post-adolescent frustrated when his future reveals that instead of a world renowned hero he is slated to murder Tuesday’s boyfriend and spend most of the rest of his life in prison) and her imaginary daughter Jenny, outsmart God, the Goliath Corporation, and her nemesis Jack Schitt and save the world. All of this mind you while settling into her new job as chief librarian of the Swindon All-You-Can-Eat-at-Fatso’s Drink Not Included Library.

 

B. CHRISTMAS SEASON 2016 — TOPPLING TREES AND SUPER GLUE.

One afternoon we arrived home to find our fully decorated Christmas tree lying on its side amidst a splatter of broken ornaments and spruce needles. Dick the engineer hypothesized that the tree, despite out heroic endeavor three days ago to balance it properly, was, in fact, unbalanced and it took the tree this long to realize it. So, we lifted up the tree, rebalanced it, placed additional weights on the bottom, redecorated it with the remaining ornaments and hoped for the best.

On Saturday, a day of horrendous rain and fog, HRM happily announced he was going out to play in the rain. Noticing one of the eyelets in his boots was detached he decided to reattach it with superglue before flitting about in the rain. As misadventure would have it, rather than attaching the eyelet to the boot he managed to glue both his own eyes shut. HRM, Dick and I, then spent the next eight hours in the emergency rooms of two separate hospitals where the doctors worked to unstick his eyelids. One of the doctors, who was quite amused by it all, took me aside and asked, “We see this a lot, where children [usually in the 3 to 6-year range] glue one eye shut with super glue, but we have never seen anyone who managed to glue both eyes shut. How did he do this?” “HRM,” I responded, “is a very special child.”

WWE blew in from SE Asia in concern for the welfare of her progeny and then promptly refused to accompany him to the ophthalmologist claiming she had more important things to do.

The first week of therapy has ended. I now have great admiration for those who have courageously faced much more severe illness and aggressive therapy. True I am a wuss, but nevertheless, it thoroughly exhausted me. Thanks to the kindness of Stevie and Norbert, it was not a bad as I feared.

Today I set off for the beginning of my second week of therapy. I was looking forward to it. That is very weird.

 

C. BOOK REPORT: TIMBUKTU — TAHIR SHAH

Ok, I admit I have been on somewhat of a Tahir Shah binge read for a while now. As you know, he usually writes about his own, mostly inept, adventures searching the nether parts of the world for imaginary places of legend and, of course, to his great disappointment and no one else’s surprise not finding them. In this book, a novel, he writes about the adventures of another person Robert Adams, an illiterate American seaman who in 1815 was shipwrecked off the African coast enslaved, taken to Timbuktu, the first westerner in 400 or so years to see the place. There he becomes a guest of the ruler of the city until he is enslaved again, dragged back across the Sahara where he is rescued by a French diplomat from Morocco who pays his slave price. After spending 3 years as a slave crisscrossing the Sahara before his rescue, he finally boards a ship to return him to America. Alas, he has shipwrecked again this time in England, where he becomes a beggar until he if found by an English nobleman who introduces him to an African Explorers Association where he tells his story and publishes a book giving him enough money to return to the US. This much is more or less true.

In Tahir Shah’s hands, this story becomes a historical novel, an adventure story, a satire, a polemic on slavery, a thriller, a detective story, a Victorian (well actually Regency) romance and as many other genres as can be mashed together in a single book. We meet the looney Prince Regent, Byron, Insane George III, Ambassador John Quincy Adams and just about everybody who was anybody in London at the time. It was all great fun.

Pookie says, “Check it out.”

 

 

DAILY FACTOID:

Foreskin — Foreskin restoration dates back to the reign of Emperor Tiberius when surgical means were taken to lengthen the foreskin of individuals with either a short foreskin that did not cover the glans completely or a completely exposed glans as a result of circumcision. In classical Greek and Roman societies, exposure of the glans was considered improper and did not conform to the Hellenistic ideal of gymnastic nudity. Men with short foreskins would wear the kynodesme (a string that ties the inadequate foreskin together above the Glans then secured around the waist) to prevent exposure. As a consequence of this social stigma, an early form of foreskin restoration known as epispasm was practiced among some Jews in Ancient Rome. During World War II some European Jews sought foreskin restoration to avoid Nazi persecution.

 

 

PEPE’S POTPOURRI

A continuing exchange of views on previous T&T Post:

Ruth’s Comment:

“Hey Guys, you forgot Life with Luigi. My favorites, however, were Baby Snooks, Junior Miss, the Lone Ranger, and Sergeant Preston. Not soaps, except for Luigi, but “tune in next week….”

My Response:

While I listened to Life with Luigi, I could never warm up to this little, warm, dumb, mother obsessed Italian male with a pencil thin mustache. I was glad when we were allowed to graduate to Gangster-hood.

My evening radio diet began with Bobby Benson and the B Bar B Riders and continued, in no particular order through The Lone Ranger ( which until much later I thought was the Long Ranger and contemplated the meaning of that for several years), Allen’s Ally, Jack Benny, George Burns and Gracie Allen, The Shadow and The Green Hornet among others. When the music and the creaking door for Suspense Theater came on, I would shut off the radio and hide under the covers. I had a lot of nightmares.

My mornings started with Arther Godfrey, then Our Gal Sunday (could she really find happiness as the wife of a wealthy and titled Englishman? I doubted it), Helen Trent, Our Miss Brooks, Young Doctor Malone, and finally The Guiding Light. Then for about an hour, I would read the Colliers Encyclopedia that my parents were conned into buying by a door to door salesman. Later, I would leave the house because both my parents were working and walk across town to the library where I would read books from the adult section until the librarian would catch me and direct me to the children section. At that time Stevenson, Poe, and Dumas were considered adult books.

As you probably surmise, I rarely went to school, feigning sickness so that I could listen to my favorite radio shows. I was lucky I tested so well or they would have thrown me out of grammar school.

What still amazes me is that no-one at that time in that town thought it odd that a seven or eight-year-old boy would walk alone across town during a school day. HRM is eleven years old and we still do not allow him to walk alone through town. Not that he particularly wants to.

Peter’s Comment:

“I don’t recall Luigi – cultural blackout. But don’t forget The Second Mrs. Burton. Yes re: Fanny Brice, Sgt. Preston and the Lone Ranger. And, of course, The Fat Man: He’s stepping on the scale; weight (whatever it was); fortune-Danger!

I’ll be in the rocker at the end of the veranda, past the nod-outs, chuckling to myself as I quietly but firmly subdue the impulse to drool.”

My Response.

Damn, I forgot The Fat Man (237 pounds — audio of shows https://archive.org/details/otr_fatman),  The Second Mrs. Burton and Sgt. Preston (On King on you Husky) they were also favorite not to be missed shows. Why o why have they gone from us?

Peter’s Response:

“Rampant pathology hadn’t quite arrived yet in those days — at least not in our part of town. I used to take subway and bus across town to school without incident. The 25 percent who walked the streets talking to themselves were in their own worlds. Never actually saw a zip gun. Learned to look sharp and run fast.

He WAS the Long Ranger!! Tonto and Kato used to work out at the Polo Grounds when the Giants had away games. The Shadow did. And Gangbusters was heard with radio hidden under the covers. Dana Carvey and Mike Meyers weren’t born yet. Calcium deposits hadn’t started building up yet. So it goes.”

 

 

 

TODAY’S QUOTE:

“The more flesh, the more worms,”
Rabbi Hillel

 

 

 

PETRILLO’S COMMENTARY:

This is a continuation of a post I began a long time ago.

The First Centuries.

Galilee was a hotbed of religious ferment and cross-cultural interactions. It was also a center of Hellenic Judaism. Hellenic Judaism was common from Egypt through central Turkey. To the Hellenic Jews, ’Ḥoni’ became ‘Menelaus’; ‘Joshua’ became ‘Jason’ or ‘Jesus.’ The Hellenic influence pervaded everything, even in such strongholds of Judaism as Jerusalem. It modified the organization of the state, the laws, and public affairs, art, science, and industry, affecting even the ordinary things of life and the common associations of the people. The inscription prohibiting strangers to advance beyond a certain point in the Temple was in Greek and was probably made necessary by the presence of numerous Jews from Greek-speaking countries at the time of the festivals (see the “murmuring of the Grecians against the Hebrews,” Acts VI. 1). The coffers in the Temple which contained the shekel contributions were marked with Greek letters (Sheḳ. III. 2). It is, therefore, no wonder that there were synagogues of the Libertines, Cyrenians, Alexandrians, Cilicians, and Asiatics in the Holy City itself (Acts Vi. 9).

Hellenic Judaism produced the Septuagint in Egypt and influences Rabis like Hillel and his supporters. Jesus himself spent time preaching in the Hellenic cities of the Decapolis. Hellenic Judaism sought a more philosophical rationale for Judaism than simply reliance on interpretations of the law. They were not averse to bringing non-Jews into their congregation. In fact, they developed the seven Noahide laws as traditionally enumerated as follows:

Do not deny God.
Do not blaspheme God.
Do not murder.
Do not engage in illicit sexual relations.
Do not steal.
Do not eat from a live animal.
Establish courts/legal system to ensure obedience to the law.

During this period many, Hellenic Jewish leaders and the Jesus sect in Jerusalem argued for allowing membership of non-jews into the congregation if they commit to following the Noahide laws.*

*Note: 1. In 1987 President Ronald Reagan signed a proclamation speaking of “the historical tradition of ethical values and principles, which have been the bedrock of society from the dawn of civilization when they were known as the Seven Noahide Laws, transmitted through God to Moses on Mount Sinai.”

2. Also, Jews, Muslims, and Christians, more or less, agree with all these laws. All they disagree about is what they call God (Yahweh, Alla, and God) and who is the boss on earth. I am sure the Supreme Being has more important things to do than care about what name you use for him. Then that leaves only “the boss” to argue over. Isn’t that always what it is all about? Everyone either wants to be the boss or for their boss to be the big boss (otherwise they will put into for transfer),

 

 

 

TODAY’S PHOTOGRAPHS:

IMG_2563

 

IMG_2565_2

Categories: October through December 2016, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

This and that from re Thai r ment, by 3Th. Pookie 23 0005 (December 6, 2016)

 

“Err on the side of messiness. Sorting something that you will never search is a complete waste; searching something you never sorted is merely inefficient.”
Christian, Brian; Griffiths, Tom. Algorithms to Live By: The Computer Science of Human Decisions. Henry Holt and Co.

 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY SON JASON.

 

 

 

TODAY FROM AMERICA:

 

A. POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN MENDOCINO:

Article from KOZT Calendar of Community Events Mendocino:

“Death Cafe Ukiah

“Join with other community members at the Ukiah Community Center over tea and refreshments to talk about a subject that many find awkward or uncomfortable: Death and Dying. Adults and teens alike are invited to the comfy, confidential setting. The Death Cafe meets on the first Saturday of each month. Donations requested to cover expenses only.”

On Tuesday, they removed five teeth from my mouth, loaded me up with Hydrocodone and urged me to refrain from driving for a few days. The next morning, I drove to my sister’s house in Mendocino. The weather at the coast was cool and overcast with light sprinkles of rain falling now and then. I happily ensconced myself on the sofa by the large floor to ceiling windows through which I could see the gray and white ocean pulsing beyond the trees. I was as happy sitting there all day as I could possibly conceive of being anywhere.

On Thanksgiving, Maryann and George had another couple over for dinner. I was reduced to eating only soft mushy things in order to avoid the risk or reopening the wounds in my mouth — mashed sweet potatoes, yogurt, pumpkin soup and the soft stuffing. I prattled on with stories about New York teenage gangs of the 50s, mobsters I have known, and family oddities until even I was bored and so I excused myself and went to bed.

Saturday the rains stopped briefly and a wonderful rainbow appeared. I read two books that day while sitting on my favorite sofa.
IMG_2533

In the evening, I would watch episodes of Game of Thrones on HBO and marvel at the high production values and consistency despite the number of different directors it took to film the series. Of course, as the series successfully progressed more money was available for lighting, lavish sets and the like but the style and values remained high. I did notice the costumes changed from traditional replicas of medieval garments to more fashionable designs, like Prince Oberon’s (The Red Viper) flowered yellow Chesterfield, Jamie Lannister’s bitching leather jacket with offset lapels and Daenerys Targaryen’s skin tight white culottes under a flimsy split front blue dress.

Then it was time to leave. On Monday as I drove home, I stopped and strolled through Hendy State Park, an unlogged redwood grove about a half a mile off route 128 in Philo. For those who have never walked through a redwood grove, the first thing you are aware of is the silence, The sounds of wind, or cries of birds, or rustle of animals seems as though they have been swallowed up into the stillness. Then, you notice the massive tree trunks standing among the sorrel and ferns, the only undergrowth surrounding them. Your eyes are drawn upward until, through the gloom, the branches high above spread their greenery to catch the sun. Redwood groves are often described as nature’s cathedrals and like cathedrals, you first notice the silence and emptiness before the glories of the sculpted columns and the chromatic splashes of sunlight from the windows suddenly spring to life — like that first moment of stillness before the organist crashes his opening chord.
IMG_2554

 

B. BACK AMONG THE GOLDEN HILLS:

Attending to the administrative details of my treatment and bouts of depression have driven me to mope around the house. The second of our two dog’s, Pepe, has had to be put down. I feel very bad for Dick. Although I bought Pepe as a gift, 15 years ago, Dick has cared for it for most of the time since then. Nevertheless, even at his advanced age, tending to Pepe while Dick was away at work was a pleasant way to break the monotony of life in EDH. Looking after HRM, my other happy diversion has diminished somewhat since he entered middle school and begun his long transition from family dependency to peer group politics. As a result, I have found myself alone and bored. My sister suggests I join the local senior center and take up Pickle Ball. I would prefer to find a dark seedy bar in which to spend my evenings. Alas, this is EDH, seediness in not allowed — at least in public. So maybe it is Pickle Ball by default.

 

C. GOOD NEWS — BAD NEWS:

Good news: My cancer has not spread to other parts of my body. Bad News: I have cancer.
Good News: It is a type with a high rate of cure. Bad News: Donald Trump is going to be President.

 

D. SAD NEWS:

My sister’s son Brendan Dreaper and his friend Ashley Valdez planned to attend the concert at the site of the “Ghost Ship Fire” with a number of friends, including the members of the band Introflirt that Brendan was managing. Instead, they opted to spend the weekend with my sister in Mendocino. At least 5 of their friends died in that horrendous fire including members of the band. There is little one can do but mourn and remember those that died. For those, like Brendan and Ashley, left behind to grieve the loss of their friends my heart goes out to them.

In a Facebook Post, Brendan wrote in memory of his friends:

We are overwhelmed with deep sadness. The Oakland Ghost Ship fire claimed many beautiful lives. Among them were our friends, colleagues, and artists; Travis Hough of Ghost of Lightning and Nicole “Denalda” Renae and Ben Runnels of Introflirt.

Mixtape Artist Management welcomed Travis into our family in the summer of 2016. Always a pleasure to work with, Travis’ spirit and creativity brought light into every interaction.

By day, Travis was an expressive arts therapist, dedicating his time and energy to helping children in the East Bay community. Travis created his musical project, Ghost of Lighting as a means of exploring and understanding his own psyche. He believed that healing through music is not only possible, but also necessary, and shared that belief with others in everything that he did.

Introflirt also joined the Mixtape family in the summer of 2016. They dubbed their sound “croonwave” and made it their mission to create a “soundtrack for the insecure.” The band believed in creating spaces where being an outsider actually meant being an insider, where insecurities were transformed into strengths. Their songs invited listeners to celebrate their individuality and both Ben and Nicole exhibited fierce individuality and creativity both on and off the stage.

We will miss Travis, Nicole, and Ben terribly and know that there are so many people that they touched, both personally and through their music, who will miss them as well.

 

 

 

PETRILLO’S COMMENTARY:

Because my rendition of my favorite era’s of history (especially the First Centuries) has gotten exceptionally long and idiosyncratic (boring), I have moved it to the end of the post.

 

 

DAILY FACTOID:

“The world’s most difficult word to translate has been identified as ‘Ilunga,’ from the Tshiluba language spoken in south-eastern DR Congo.… Ilunga means ‘a person who is ready to forgive any abuse for the first time, to tolerate it a second time, but never a third time.’”
—BBC NEWS

I hereby promise everyone hereinafter I will Ilunga them. … Somehow that does not sound right.

 

 

 

PEPE’S POTPOURRI:

A. Dialogue on Top:

An imaginary dialogue between a young person with ambition and an older person with experience:

Young Person asks— “Do you have any pointers you can give me?”

Experience Person responds — “Don’t let anyone take advantage of you.”

YP — “Please explain.”

EP — “You’re young you still have that sparkle in your eye that drive to go out and save the day and let the rest sort itself out. But when you think like that, people can take advantage. Employers want your services. Agents want a cut of your pay. Companies want you to sell their products. If you’re not careful, you give yourself away for less than you’re worth. You trust people who you shouldn’t. You play with fire, and you get burned.”

“That’s my advice to you, ‘Don’t get burned.’”

YP —I was more looking for things like keys to advancement.”

EP — “Oh … that. Just survive. Live through enough experiences, and you’ll advance. For an intelligent and smart person with your kind of background, that’s the easy part. But if you do that long enough, eventually you learn that your job isn’t about being self-sufficient or doing the right thing. Really, we just do what we do for money. And when that finally starts to sink in, you face the hard part of professional life: the big questions.”

YP —“The big questions?”

EP —“Yeah. Is there more to life than just advancement and looting? Are we more than just numbers in some accountants ledger, statistics written on our resume? And the big one, the one that haunts you every night on the job: Why are we doing this anyway?”

( Adapted from Orconomics: A Satire [The Dark Profit Saga Book 1] by J. Zachary Pike. Gnomish Press LLC.)

 

B. Trenz Pruca’s Observations:

All stories have at their heart either a great truth or a great lie. The better the story the less we can tell which one lies at its heart.

 

C. Today’s Poem:

Ends
On worried wings
he softly sings
of dreams of fire
and ghostly things
with deep desire.

He cries in vain
though woes remain
beneath the sun
he feels the pain.

Without desire
for those things
he banks his fire.
Burned wood sings
through smokey wings.

Without such pain
beneath the sun
the coals remain.
He cries in vain.

 

C. Some Comments on Previous T&T Post.

Peter.

This T&T is brilliant. Perhaps the diagnoses, prognosis, and specialists’ joy in rambling on with their shoptalk, coupled with the political horror and, lastly, the unnerving implications of oral sex, resulted in unanticipated flashes of insight, eloquence, and dreariness, leavened only by med-promises of endless joyful pharmaceuticals.

Finished The Sorcerer’s Apprentice. Thanks for the tip. Marvelous! Vivid enough to spur memories of sights, smells, and the incredible human comedy that is India. Shah certainly traveled rough. I recall my first trip when I traveled third class when I wasn’t hitchhiking. Anyway would be, and was an experience, but he really appears to be an intrepid adventurer. After your description of the Peru trip, I really wonder about this guy. Gotta read that book and see the film.

Just heard the following via Barrie from Facebook:

A plane encountered trouble and was going to crash. There were four passengers and only three parachutes. The first passenger was Stephen Curry of the Warriors, who identified himself and said his team needed him, and he took the first parachute and jumped out. The second passenger was Donald Trump, who said he was the new president and the smartest president and the people needed him, and he took the second parachute and jumped. The third passenger was the Pope, who said to the fourth passenger, a 15-year-old boy, that he was old and had little time left, and told the boy he should take the remaining parachute. The boy replied, “There’s a parachute for you, too. Trump took my school bag.”

As to what Aristotle said, such is karma and definition of neurosis or insanity.

Yes, those First Centuries are fascinating. I remember taking a class in college in my senior year (by that time I was a philosophy major, a fitting end after engineering, physics, history and pre-med), from a guest professor from OSU about that period. Your listing of the Judean factions and their scab-picking and worse animosities highlights the risks and limitations of ancient high-density village-level living. We didn’t have that sort of problem in our 13-story Manhattan apartment house (it said 14 because they were afraid to call the top floor 13 – pitiful), though; people left each other alone; like walking down the street and avoiding eye contact, a standard NYC street-smarts item to dodge the loonies and aggressive.

Don’t forget the Manichaeans and the Gnostics. I don’t think we had any Manicheans or Gnostics in my building; we were too busy running down the stairs racing the elevator to the ground floor to be concerned about competing belief systems. A Gnostic or two would have been fun- this, the insight of decades of reading, travel, and exposure to really good comedians.

Today we are preparing for a non-turkey repast with a former colleague/friend and spouse who live on a boat in South San Francisco. I thought they might want to stretch their legs a bit.

Regards to Maryann and George from us.

As Bob and Ray would perhaps have said if they were with us today, “Write if you get work, hang by your thumbs, and make sure those medicos fork over the drugs.”

My Response.
Hi,
I do not know if I responded yet. I’ve been bouncing between false euphoria and dark depression as I deal with doctors, administrators and insurance companies. I’ve gotten five teeth pulled and a load of drugs but no treatment yet.

Check Tahir Shah’s family. Talk about high performers. A famous Sufi scholar Idres Shah was his father, one sister is a filmmaker and the other a journalist.

I forgot to mention, probably the only people who receive T&T old enough to know who Bob and Ray were are you, Ruth and me.

Peter Again.

False euphoria beats a blank.

So, B&R might close with “write if you get more good drugs and don’t chew on your tongue while you search for lost teeth.” As for Mary Backstage Noble Wife, instead of hailing from a little mining town out west, perhaps she really hailed from a broom closet behind the carousel on the Santa Monica Pier, in constant hiding from being dragooned into attending interminable Coastal Commission hearings while dreaming of finally meeting up with Henry Morgan and fleeing to Wrigley’s Catalina mansion for salubrious joy to the tune of endless Bobby Darrin songs.

So the Shah family is a bunch of over-achievers. I’m exhausted considering the possibilities. Question: Do Sufi twirlers ever get dizzy?

MY RESPONSE.

Oh, by the way, I was also a fan of Helen Trent — “Can a successful and accomplished business woman over the age of 35 find love and happiness?” Alas, she never did —perhaps if she hung out at the Santa Monica pier she would have.

And for all those who expresses their concern and best wishes for my health, thank you.
 

TODAY’S PHOTOGRAPH:
IMG_2548
THE FOUR GENERATIONS: my father Jack, grandfather Joe, son Jason and I.

 

 

PETRILLO’S COMMENTARY:

This is a continuation of the First Centuries saga, 300 BC to 300 AD, I began many issues of T&T ago.

JESUS

Of all founders of great religions in history, Jesus may be the least significant to the system of belief created in his name.

The reason for this is not because some historians question his existence since there is no independent corroboration of it in contemporary sources who were not members of his sect. This lack of independent historical corroboration is not unusual for supposed founders of religion. There is none for Moses, Abraham or David and supposed creators of other great religions that exist today. Perhaps the one we have the most independent corroboration about before modern times is Mohamed. Among the facts that support this conclusion is that although we have independent knowledge of people who were his contemporaries that the New Testament claimed he knew, like John the Baptist and James the Just these sources do not mention Jesus. Also, Galilee was known for its “miracle workers” some of whom were named in independent texts and Jesus was not.

On the other hand, besides the similarity with other religious founders and that his ministry was relatively brief we do have some documents from which his existence can be inferred, although it is, as I have written, quite unimportant from a historical perspective whether he lived or not.

Within 10 to 15 years after his supposed death on the cross and before the first written biography, the Gospel of Mark, one list of the documents written about him include:

30-60 Passion Narrative
40-80 Lost Sayings Gospel Q
50-60 1 Thessalonians
50-60 Philippians
50-60 Galatians
50-60 1 Corinthians
50-60 2 Corinthians
50-60 Romans
50-60 Philemon
50-80 Colossians
50-90 Signs Gospel
50-95 Book of Hebrews
50-120 Didache
50-140 Gospel of Thomas
50-140 Oxyrhynchus 1224 Gospel
50-150 Apocalypse of Adam
50-150 Eugnostos the Blessed
50-200 Sophia of Jesus Christ
65-80 Gospel of Mark
70-100 Epistle of James

This list shows a lot was written about Jesus within the first two to three decades of his supposed death, not all of which made it into the Bible, and that they were authored as far away from Jerusalem as Egypt, Macedonia, and Rome. The first three entries on the list, if their order and early dates are accurate indicate: that within a few years of the event someone named Jesus died on a cross between two thieves; that he proclaimed a number of sayings that appear later in the Gospels, and; within a decade or two of his supposed death a significant —gathering of the cult existed as far away as Macedonia. While this certainly is not proof, it is enough to continue this discussion as though he did exist although, as I said, it is not very important. Another noticeable thing about the list is the number of documents written by Paul, which is important and which I will get to soon.

One of the most consequential things to remember about Jesus, whether he existed as a person or an idea, is that he came from Galilee and not Jerusalem.
(to be continued)

 

Categories: October through December 2016, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

This and that from re Thai r ment, by 3Th. 10 Pookie 0005 (NOVEMBER 24, 2016)

 

“We are what we repeatedly do.”
Aristotle
HAPPY THANKSGIVING

 

 

TODAY FROM AMERICA:

 

A. POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN EL DORADO HILLS:

First, I learn that my body has turned against me. Then, my country went insane. It was not a good beginning to the week. So, I overdosed on valium and crawled into bed hoping I could escape into my fantasy world. No such luck. I could not sleep. For the remainder of the week, I refused to read a newspaper, open either my computer or cell phone or look at television. I did sober up one day and slip out of my room to see a movie, Dr. Strange. I thought it was appropriate.

The next week, I was forced to leave the house and begin the rounds of the specialists who poked and prodded me, stuck needles in several different parts of my body and rammed hoses down my nose and my throat while they rambled on with happy talk punctuated with brief descriptions of the pain I would suffer from the treatment they were so eager to provide me.

I tried to get my mind around why, at my age, I would want to submit myself to all that for the sole purpose of living a few extra years reading second-rate novels while I slowly lose my hearing, sight and mind anyway. I mean, it is not as though I am looking forward to the glories of a Trump presidency or watching the Bay rise to cover the Embarcadero or even the possibility of a 49r Super Bowl.

But they, the doctors, the specialists, five so far, whose separate offices are spread across the Great Valley, all seem to be excited about the coming battle. I think the cure may be more important to them than it is to me. They happily croon of the high probability of success and boost my morale by pointing out that the treatment I will go through is far less painful and demeaning than experienced by others with much more severe malignancies. I respond, that I am a hypochondriac, a coward, have an unbelievably low threshold of pain and begin whimpering when I drive by a hospital. I also pointed out I am a depressive held together with massive amounts of happy pills. They counter with promises of an unlimited supply of drugs of my choice to keep me pain-free and happy.

Amusingly, I guess, my problems with my throat and tongue they tell me are caused by HPV. It seems women relatively often develop cervical cancer from this form of STD. “But,” I told the doctor, “I haven’t gone down there in many years.” He explained that it can take 30 years or so for the tongue and throat cancer to develop. I thought this was a rather sad fact to contemplate. Even pleasure can be deadly. In my last T&T, I pointed out that shark bite causes fewer deaths than vending machines. Now I discover that oral sex is even more deadly than those predatory machines. Sometimes I read SciFi novels about humans who land on another world only to find the flora and fauna there to be deadly to humans. It seems as though we do not have to travel to distant planets to find that danger. Here on earth, it appears that just about anything can kill you, especially members of your own species and the machines they create supposedly for your convenience.

On a lighter note, after dropping HRM off at school in the mornings as I drive to Bella Bru for breakfast, I top a rise in the landscape that exposes a magnificent view of a huge stretch of the Great Valley (the Central Valley). For some quirky reason, much of human development disappears from view and I imagine it appears as it did to the indigenous peoples of the area or the first invaders from the East, vast and empty. I often wonder what those invaders from the East, the American so-called settlers thought when they saw what appeared to be that vast emptiness spread out below them. Certainly not simply a potential homestead and the romance of a new life, but also, and more likely, given the reasons for their migration, something that can be cheaply exploited, like a lion topping a hill and seeing what appears to be unlimited herds of gazelles grazing on the grass below.

The cold weather and rains have moved into the Golden Hills ending my swimming for the year and forcing us to spend more time in the house. It is Thanksgiving week vacation for HRM and he remains bubbly and bored spending more time on his computer than is probably good for him. Dick is occupied with caring for the dog, Pepe, who clearly has only a few days or weeks to live. It will be hard for him when the dog dies. I think he has been closer to it than to any person in his life. I, on the other hand, content myself with reading and drifting off to sleep and my dream life. I plan to spend the holidays in Mendocino with my sister. Nikki flies in to entertain HRM and Dick, I suppose, will get on with his grieving.
IMG_2527_2
Twilight in the Golden Hills

B. MORE FROM TAHIR SHAH:

Pasted Graphic
Paititi

In previous issues of T&T, I have discussed a few of the books by travel writer Tahir Shah. They generally discuss Mr. Shah’s low cost, somewhat bumbling and humorous expeditions to locate non-existing or mythical places or people — King Solomon’s Mine’s, the Gonds of Gondwana Land, Indian magicians and most recently the last refuge of the Inca’s, Piatiti in the Madre de Deus cloud forest of Peru. I thought his inept explorations, often relying on the stories of odd individuals he meets along the way, were literary devices intended to make his obviously humorous travelogues more interesting. However, in doing some background research on the most recent of his works I am reading, The House of the Tiger King, I am no longer so sure about that.

In the book, Tahir is accompanied by a Swedish father and son team of documentary filmmakers, their backer, a mysterious Ukrainian banker named Yuri, and a Bulgarian film student named Boris. They prove to be even more incompetent at filmmaking than Tahir is at exploring, losing much of their film along the way. Nevertheless, they produced a full-length documentary of the expedition whose production values are abysmal even for an art form known for low productions standards. Nevertheless, having located the documentary on YouTube, I found it a fascinating accompaniment to the book.

For security, the expedition hires an American ex-Vietnam veteran living in Peru on a diet consisting primarily of psychedelics. He quits halfway through the voyage and steals most of the exposed film and all of the expeditions morphine. Also accompanying them is the Seventh-day-Adventist leader of a small Peruvian village in the area who insists that the fabled city of Piatiti exists and had been found by a headhunter living in another village in which the residents supposedly still hunts heads. The head-hunter, when they locate him, denies he found the city but later recants and agrees to join them if they agree that after the expedition they will take him to Cusco to visit a whore house and a disco. The Seventh-day Adventist also warns them that the evil spirits that guard the city will require a dead body in payment for letting them through. This prompts a trip across Peru and a midnight raid of a 4000-year-old cemetery containing thousands of ancient mummies in order to secure the required dead body — no, I am not kidding you. I will not tell you how it all turns out other than to let you know that in the end of both the story and the film the head-hunter gets his trip to Cusco.

The documentary film can be found at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZNEvq6bQ4-A. For maximum amusement, I suggest reading a portion of the book, then watching the corresponding part of the film before going on to the next portion of the book.

I can assure you that after watching the film and reading the book you will be left with that most perplexing of all questions bedeviling humanity — Why?

 

 

PETRILLO’S COMMENTARY:

The following continues a review of those eras of human history about which I have developed a fondness. In this case, it is the era I call the First Centuries, from 300 BC to 300 AD.

After the death of Herod the Great and the division of his Kingdom among his four heirs, the seething dissatisfactions among groups and polities along the Western shore of the Middle East began to boil over. Let us begin by listing some of the contending factions, many of whom disliked each other.

There were the various ethnic groups, the Nabateans, the Judeans, the Galileans, the Arameans, the Phoenicians, and the Egyptians including the ethnic Hebrews who resided there for about 500 years and the Theraputea. To the North in what is now Syria and Central Turkey groups of Hellenized Hebrews lived among the various tribes as did those Hebrews that lived in southern Mesopotamia. Then there were the Hellenes who were everywhere and of course the Romans who ruled them all. Among the Hebrews, few if any had ever even visited Judea and their ethnic cousins and co-religionists that lived there. It can be imagined that until the missionaries from Judea after the Maccabean revolution and Herod’s missionary management reforms armed with the Septuagint these peoples had little understanding of the various accretions to the laws and legends that had occurred over the hundreds of years of separation.

In was in Judea itself, however, that the most significant sectarian factionalism occurred. There we had:

The Sadducees, the minders of the temple and the Judean nobility who managed and profited from the sacrifices in the temple (Judaism was a sacrificial based religion like that of all the other Semitic tribes in the Middle East at the time.) They had been reorganized by Herod when he built the temple.

The Pharisees, I guess you could call them the canon lawyers. They focused on explaining and interpreting the various rules found in the sacred writings.

The Essenes, they can best be analogized to the Albigensians of the Middle Ages, semi-monastic communities. But. where the Albigensians frowned on sex, the Essenes were obsessed with bathing, the parentage of the chief priest of the temple, and the pettifogging way of the Pharisees.

The Baptists, begun by John as a merger of Hellenic cynicism (rejection of civilization and a return to the wild) and the bathing obsession of the Essenes, raising it to the level of a requirement for joining the group perhaps equal to circumcision.

The Zealots (the Sicarii faction of which were the ISIL of the time) dedicated to overthrowing Roman domination and Hellenic moral relativism.

None of these groups liked each other very much but they all hated the Romans although it is uncertain whether they hated them more than they hated each other.

There were probably also other groups active at the time in Jerusalem politics including a bit later the Jesus Church or faction. I guess we should now take a slight detour to discuss the phenomenon of Jesus who although is less important to our story than Paul and the Pharisees (Rabbis) was a necessary transition.
To be continued.

 

 

 

PEPE’S POTPOURRI:

 

A. Quigley on Top:

When lecturing before the of Defense Institute in the 1970’s Professor Quigley was asked, how much support did he believe the dissenters in this country were getting from the Communists?

Quigley replied:

I’m sure the Communists are supporting the dissenters. But the Communists are of no importance. The Communist Party in this country was destroyed. Read Shannon’s history. It is extremely likely that by 1960 one of the chief sources of funds for the Communist Party in this country was the FBI spies who had joined it. And the chief financial support of the Communists from about 1920 to about 1950 was Wall Street. Why? I do not know. If you’re interested, look up the story of The Institute of Pacific Relations; it was financed by Lee Higginson & Company of Boston, Frederick Vanderbilt Field of New York, and other big money interests.

When these people cut off this money, about 1949, the Communists were pretty much finished. Their only other source of money was Moscow, and Moscow has never been generous with funds for local Communist Parties, which they believe should support themselves. According to an FBI estimate, I believe, the Communists in this country are down to about 15,000 members. Take Angela Davis. She is emotionally alienated from our society, and for good reasons, but this has little to do with communism, even if she is a member of the Party. This is why I say ideology is not really important in dissent. People become Communists not because they like the ideology, but because they wish to demonstrate their opposition, just as young people let their hair grow and won’t polish their shoes or wear neckties.
B. Trenz Pruca’s Observations:

It is not how you make your life that matters, but what you believe your life to be.
C. Today’s Poem

Dropping the Bow, by Andrew Schelling provides a selection from King Hala’s Gaha-kosa(“Book of Songs”), the original of which consists of 700 poems (approximately 200 BCE to 200 CE) Despite being penned by hundreds of different poets, the poems are all of the same meter, and contain approximately thirty-two syllables. Most of them deal with love. As selected and translated by Schelling, they are brief, usually erotic, and often emotionally charged, as this one by Hala himself:

Mother
with the blink of an eye
his love vanished
A trinket gets
dangled
into your world
you reach out and it’s gone

 

 

 

TODAY’S QUOTE:

“The object explained a great deal. The man was an Aghori sadhu. My interest in the trophy heads of the Naga headhunters had led me to the Aghoris. Their beliefs are close to those of traditional shamans. The Aghoris said to have the power to overcome evil spirits, were traditionally confirmed cannibals. Their libations, which once included human blood, are drunk from the bowl of a human skull. But to an Aghori, the skull is far more than a simple drinking vessel. It contains the spirit of the deceased. The soul remains the Aghori’s prisoner until the skull is cremated. Such jinns, spirits, are tamed and put to work by the sadhu in his world of shadows.”
Shah, Tahir. Sorcerer’s Apprentice: An Incredible Journey into the World of India’s Godmen. Arcade Publishing.

 

Categories: October through December 2016, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

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